


Practicing

by LilyAngorian



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Basically miserable, Death, F/M, M/M, Practicing what to say at the funeral, Series Two Spoilers (kind of), Tommy thinking about Freddie when it is all too late
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2415497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyAngorian/pseuds/LilyAngorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I got sad about Freddie and I refuse to stop shipping them. So this may actually be awful. But I needed it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practicing

"I promised my friend, Freddie Thorne, that I would say a few words over his grave, if...if he should pass before me." The words caught in his throat, twisting into the flesh, as he forced them out and spat them towards the mirror. Towards hardened, darkened eyes. His delicately cultivated control had long since been abandoned, the traces of moonlight seeping in from the break in the curtains illuminating the almost sickly pallor of his skin, and the light sweat on his brow. He turned away from the sight, pressing his back to the wall, resting his head against it. Two years. Two years of reconciliation, of comradery even. Always with a bitter taste in his mouth. Seeing Freddie slipping away into Ada's arms, catching the private glances and the whispers that others dutifully ignored, or quietly observed with a knowing smile. It would make him think of Grace, and that was bitter enough alone. But it would also make him think of Freddie, and that was intolerable. 

He could just hear the sound of Ada crying upstairs, as she clutched at the bed sheets around Freddie's body. The sobs were few and far between now, lines of tears scarring her face and a heavy weariness in her hunched frame. Pol was sat on the stairs, gently running her hands over Karl's hair, an unfamiliar softness in her gaze. The kid had been clinging to her for hours, unaware of the tension that had been crawling throughout the house, deaf to his mothers cries thanks to Pol's matronly soothing. Tommy closed his eyes.

There had been something, some tightening in his gut, a blade twisted so lightly into his side that it had merely itched and ached. But no blade, no blood. Just a glance. A look at the wrong time, in reaction to the wrong words. Freddie's laughter following a second after the others, and the briefest trace of guilt etched upon his lips. Too subtle, but still far too obvious. Tommy had let it pass, finishing his drink with his eyes wandering to the bar, bitterly realising yet again that Grace was not stood there watching him. By the time he had flicked his eyes back to Freddie, it, whatever it was, had died. 

When he reopened them, he avoided Pol's look of concern and turned to face the mirror once more, leaning with palms pressed flat against the table before it. "I promised my friend Freddie Thorne..." One sharp cry from the room above cut across him, and a solitary tear graced his jacket as it fell.


End file.
